


Stories From a City Built on Blood & Magic

by OnyxWerewolf



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Happy Birthday, M/M, Multi, Raves, Urban Magic Yogs, Violence, fae
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:31:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7128419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxWerewolf/pseuds/OnyxWerewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories from the city of Urban Magic Yogs. Just short ones, including as many characters as I can think to write. Updates will be pretty random</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories From a City Built on Blood & Magic

**Author's Note:**

> It's Ross' birthday, and he's celebrating by going home.

It was early in the morning, the sun was just barely peeking over the tops of the skyscrapers, and early morning commuters and joggers milled about on the sidewalks and in coffee shops.

Everyone had to get somewhere, despite the early hour, and no one noticed the tall black haired man that stepped on a train headed for the older part of the city. No one cared about the bottle of grape wine that he clutched in his hand, nor the church bulletin held in the other hand and the rosary beads wrapped about his wrist. No one cared that his eyes shone like diamonds. No one cared that his skin looked a little grey, like worn marble.

He wasn't disturbed and he wasn't stopped. If he was really honest with himself, he wished someone would have stopped him. He wished he would get in a fight, for someone to try and take the wine from him. He wished he could find a reason not to head towards his dreaded destination, to have a reason to turn around right now, go back to the apartment he shared with his court mates, and fix breakfast like he usually did. But he had argued with himself enough, and he knew he had to do this. 

He arrived at his destination faster than he wished and he cursed himself for walking so fast. He slipped past a rusted metal fence and enjoyed the sound of the gravel crunching under his feet. He looked upon the charred remains of his church... his home. For so many years, this place had caused him so much grief, trapping him in, keeping him away from the outside world. He didn't regret his decision, not at all. He didn't regret letting Smith burn the it down, breaking the magic that kept him from leaving the church. He didn't regret joining the Garbage Court, didn't regret living with Smith and Trott and Sips. There was nothing at all that he regretted.

But.... still.

This was his home. The place he had woken up in, the place where he made friends with the priests in training, the place where he had learned to speak Latin, though admittedly he knew very little, but he still knew some of the dead language. 

Breaking the seal off the wine, he tipped his head back and guzzled down about half of the wine. He didn't feel any buzz from the alcohol and he could've drunk the entire bottle in one go if he wanted. As a gargoyle, he was completely non susceptible alcohol and he didn't need to breath. Didn't need to sleep. Didn't need to eat, drink, or even blink. He was, in a sense, a living statue. 

He began to pour out the wine, staining the grass in purplish brown color. He tossed the bottle to the side and pulled a pocket lighter out, spinning the wheel and producing a small flame. 

The thing he was about to do next was the hardest of all. 

Slowly but surely, he relaxed his hand until the church bulletin slipped through his fingers and landed in the puddle of wine. He dropped the lighter as well, and the mixture of wine, paper, and fire started a small blaze. 

He pulled his grey hoodie off of him and shed his glamour, showing his skin really was grey and a tail made from blue stained glass lazily dragged behind him. He reached up, and spun a finger around one of his two blue stained glass horns. The blaze soon lost fuel and sputtered out, the church bulletin had been reduced to ash. 

Sighing, Ross the gargoyle turned and began to walk back the way he came. He knew he'd back next year, on the same day, to destroy something else that he had brought from the church back to the apartment. Maybe the rosary, maybe the card with a patron saint that Ross couldn't remember the name of on it. 

As he walked back, not caring who saw him or his true appearance, he began to hum Happy Birthday to himself.


End file.
